


Physics Gave Me A Hadron ...

by SbiderSlut (BlackCoffeeCat)



Series: The MIT 'Verse [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, College Student Peter Parker, Dirty Talk, Guest Speaker Tony Stark, Library Sex, M/M, Peter is an MIT Co-Ed, Praise Kink, Sexual Tension, Teacher/Student Roleplay, peter is 18+, peter is an insecure academic, some plot involved, that's it that's the story, tony reassures him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-10-19 23:48:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17611391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackCoffeeCat/pseuds/SbiderSlut
Summary: ... But Genius-Billionaire-Playboy-Philanthropist Tony Stark gave MIT Co-Ed Peter Parker somethingeven better.---In which MIT guest speaker Tony Stark is utterly smitten upon meeting a promising young BME/CE double major named Peter Parker. Cue nerdgasms, sciencing, teacher-student kink, and dirtying up the library.The seventh floor of Barker Library won't know what hit it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the shortest motherfuckin' thing and I debated over posting it. But it's cold, and I'm in Hoth (or I was, yesterday), and I plan on following this up with smut, so why not? 
> 
> This is the fluffier prelude into full-on smut (because who am I without my smut?)
> 
> This first chapter literally only exists because I've been wanting to write Co-Ed Peter banging guest speaker Tony Stark at MIT, and I like having a foundation for my smut. So, the filthy, fun part is coming up next ;) 
> 
> Happy reading and hope you enjoy!

“Tony? If you have a moment, allow me to introduce you to one of my star pupils. This is Mr. Peter Parker.”

Tony, in fact, doesn’t mind speaking with this _Peter Parker_. For all that the press loves pointing out his many egotistical qualities, he enjoys meeting up-and-coming scientists who are yet to change the world. And, if he’s coming approved by Professor Kaito Nakamura of the engineering department, this Peter Parker is most definitely going to change the world.

Tony just wasn’t expecting the kid to be so fucking _pretty._

This Peter Parker is a vision. Brown hair in the good boys’ regular, soft skin that would look delectable if flushed with pleasure, and big, big eyes that Tony wants to see peering up at him through those long, fluttery lashes. His lips are rather thin, but still plush and red, begging to be used … and _geez_ , Tony has to forcefully redirect his thoughts away from that tempting path.    

“Mr. Parker,” Tony says -- and it’s only due to a lifetime of PR training that he doesn’t visibly falter or stutter over the shock of the young, fetching face on the young, fetching _boy_ he’s facing. He plasters on his media smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”

 _He’s in college,_ Tony recalls, thinking back to any memory of extraordinarily young students entering MIT in recent years. _Peter Parker_ doesn’t ring a bell.  _Chances are, he’s a legal adult._

He hopes so.

Peter smiles, and the nervous way his lips stretch over his teeth -- bared unnaturally like he’s in a failed audition for a _Crest_ commercial --  is inordinately charming. So’s the way his cheeks flush slightly, and the way his eyes are a little intimidated. He’s an innocent, Tony can tell.

“M-Mr. Stark,” Peter stutters out. “Oh wow, it’s so nice to meet you. Uh, thank you for your speech today, it was incredible -- I can’t believe -- I’m just so honored …” He tapers off into silence and a look of panic crosses his face before he smiles, sheepishly. “Hi, I - I’m Peter.”

 _God,_ Tony thinks. This kid is just _delightful._

“Hello, Peter, I’m Tony,” Tony quips, before shooting a wink that’s _supposed_ to be calming.

Peter just flushes further -- a delicious dark pink that, when paired with the way his eyes dilate, tells Tony everything he needs to know.

_Bingo._

Peter, sweet Peter, seems temporarily speechless, so Tony pushes further. “Tell me a bit about yourself, Peter. How old are you? What’s your area of study?”

“Uh.” Peter licks his lips unconsciously, and Tony follows the movement hungrily, watching the peak of a tongue drag over a red lip, leaving behind the slightest sheen of saliva.

Tony wants to lean forward and bite that lip -- taste it for himself.

Off to the side, Nakamura rolls his eyes in exasperation, but shrugs, as if to say, _if you must_. He’s known Tony for so long, from when Tony was a student himself, in fact; he knows that Tony is a decent and respectful man even if he does occasionally take a promising co-ed to bed.

“Twenty,” Peter says. “Biomedical engineering and chemical engineering, sir.”

Twenty is good; twenty is _legal_. Tony smiles. “That’s a heavy course load,” he observes. “You’re what, a junior? Most people would have dropped one of those majors by sophomore year.”

At that, Peter glances down. It’s demure. It’s modest. It’s _cute_. “I, uh, definitely end up studying more often than not,” he mumbles. “I just really like both fields. They’re both interesting to study. I don’t want to drop either one. And my thesis project is based on both of them, so.”

There’s something so simplistically charming about how Peter seems to be choosing his majors out of genuine curiosity rather than a desire for higher pay, or the prestige of it. “Color me intrigued,” Tony says, truthfully. “You’ll have to tell me about this thesis project.” He glances down at his watch -- more for the show if it than to actually check the time because he’s Tony Stark and time will change to fit his whims -- “I’m not pressed for time. Let me buy you dinner?”

At that, Peter looks conflicted. “Oh gosh, that would be _so_ incredible, Mr. Stark …”

“I’m sensing a ‘but’ here.”

That prompts an adorably contrite look from the kid. “I - I already have a date -- with the library. I have to finalize and upload a project proposal that’s due at midnight, and there’s just a few last-minute things to do. It shouldn’t take longer than thirty minutes but I can’t keep you waiting like that, that’s not right. So … I’m really sorry, Mr. Stark.”

There’s an obvious path that Tony immediately feels compelled to take -- offer to wait. He has time. He wants to know this kid. He could walk the kid to the library and watch him get to work -- it’ll probably be fascinating to witness.

But, he has his ego and he would never want to seem too eager, so he’ll let the kid go.

_For now._

“Hey, don’t sweat it,” Tony says. “Here, we’ll raincheck. The offer is open and I’m going to treat you one way or another.” He reaches into his lapel pocket and pulls out a little card. “This is my personal business card with my personal contact info. Do you have a pen?”

“Uh, yeah. Here.”

Taking the offered pen, Tony quickly jots down a set of numbers on the back of the card. “Aaaand, that’s my personal number.” He holds the card out to the stunned boy. “Don’t lose it. Don’t sell it. I’d be hurt if you did.”

“I won’t,” Peter breathes, accepting the card with trembling fingers. “I won’t.”

“Good boy,” Tony says, pleased with how Peter shifts minutely at those words. Kid’s got a praise kink, and Tony’s going to exploit it at some point. “Keep it. Know it. Use it. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”

Peter nods. “A-alright. Definitely, Mr. Stark. Thank you.” He pockets the card and shuffles awkwardly. “I should get going soon,” he says, reluctantly. “The project, you know.”

“Of course.” Tony holds out his hands, waits for Peter to grasp it, and gives a few, firm shakes. The kid’s hands are actually a little bit cold and clammy, but Tony can’t quite bring himself to mind. Who could blame the kid, anyway? “Off to the … Barker Library, is it?”

“Yeah! Yeah, the Barker Library. The carrells on the south side of the seventh floor, they’re usually very quiet. How’d you know?”

Tony makes a mental note of that. It’s _very_ useful information, after all. “You’re an engineering student. I was an engineering student. Barker was my hideaway.” He pauses, licks his lips, and then says, “It was nice meeting you, Peter Parker. Now skedaddle and go ace your assignment. Make me proud.”

With a few timid looks, some stammered words of thanks, and one last decadent hint of a blush, Peter stumbles off, looking dazed but also determined to ace his coursework.

Driven _and_ pretty. Seemingly smart to boot. That’s just Tony’s type.

He spares a second of thought to how he already _likes_ the kid a little too much. Tony doesn’t only want to fuck Peter Parker, but also pick his sharp brain and learn about the boy’s life. He wants to know what motivates Peter, what his future dreams and current beliefs are.

In fact, Tony wouldn’t mind _dating_ the kid.

Surprisingly, the idea doesn’t alarm him, as one would think.

He _will_ get to know Peter Parker. Peter Parker is worth getting to know. Tony’s already decided, and nothing will change his mind.

He turns to Nakamura, who rolls his eyes. “Since I’m sure you have an appointment on the seventh floor south wing of Barker in, oh, thirty-ish minutes, how about grabbing a coffee with an old friend before heading in that direction?”

There’s a reason why Tony’s always clashed so well with the old professor, and he’s reminded again as he gestures towards the auditorium exit. “Let’s,” he says breezily, already celebrating his victory.

Peter Parker won’t know what hit him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I said it was motherfuckin' short, I meant it. But anywho, thanks for reading, and I'd love to hear what you think! The next part is in the works ;)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is super belated, and while writing this the sexual tension aspect of the story just wouldn't let go. So needy. So, this ended up being a lot of that. Anywho, I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> (This chapter is beta-ed by Feyrelay!!)

If Peter weren’t so completely passionate about his independent study proposal, the fact that Tony Stark’s _personal_ cell number is burning a hole in Peter’s pocket might have stuck in his mind a tad longer.

The fact is, Peter _definitely_ feels his heart beating faster than a brisk walk should elicit as he makes his merry way to Barker. There’s _definitely_ a crowing voice in his head that just about screams, in a Muppet-level pitch: _Tony Stark gave me his personal number, Tony Stark wants to have dinner with me, ohmyohmyohmyohmygod._

Even if the billionaire is only looking for a quick wine, dine, and fuck…

It’s still pretty damn special.

Peter knows that he’ll be thinking about that for hours to come. He’ll probably be on the phone with MJ and Ned for hours tonight. He’ll probably lose most of his sleep.

But first, he has to turn in this proposal, because if this proposal goes through, he and Ned could quite literally develop a technology which revolutionizes the accessibility of advanced bionic medical devices.

He’s stressed about this proposal for months, and tonight is the night. He’s gotta turn it in tonight. (He’ll never feel ready.)

And, if all goes well and his proposal gets accepted, he might get the chance to finagle some input from _Tony Freaking Stark. If_ his proposal gets accepted, and they get a chance to have that dinner.

Peter so, so hopes for both of those _if_ s.

He makes his way to his corner of the seventh floor -- his little corner that’s nearly always abandoned, which is why he chose it in the first place. Sure, Peter doesn’t mind tutoring his peers and helping them out, but his own work takes time. Those two engineering majors won’t earn themselves; he needs evenings to work without interruption.

And nobody ever finds Peter in this corner. Nobody even knows that this is his corner -- except Tony Stark, now -- but the billionaire and Time 100 would hardly be committing _that_ tiny, trivial tidbit to memory.

If Peter’s lucky, Tony Stark will remember his name and _maybe_ his majors; he briefly recalls how impressed the man had looked when hearing about Peter’s fields of study. Undisguised approval and surprise had flashed in the older man’s brown eyes -- and _oh_ , they were even more rich and dark and _alive_ than Peter had imagined. Even knowing it was probably for show, that look was exhilarating to witness.

Peter would love nothing more than to be the recipient of that look again.

But, the project, first. Success, first. Then, Peter can start worrying about Tony Stark.

He unpacks his shoddy laptop and buckles down, finishing up his final formatting and running one last proofread. A blend of the work, his passion for his project, and the atmosphere of his own little corner of the library sends him into a single-minded focus as he works through some final revisions.

Distantly, Peter senses someone stepping within his radius. He holds his breath as he notices, in his periphery, this other person sitting down at the working table a few meters away from his carrell. Desperately, he hopes to god that it’s not someone seeking a moment of his time.

But, that other person says nothing. Makes no move to interrupt Peter, so Peter just keeps going. He’s so close to finished -- he will be. Just a few more minutes.

So, he types away, finishes, and cues up the submission portal.

Then, he pauses. All that’s left to do is fill out his personal information, upload his proposal, and wait to be judged by the departmental committee.

Looking at his work, though, a sudden, yet sadly expected wave of anxiety hits him. Is his project good enough? What if his proposal is actually terrible? Will he become the laughingstock of the department? Of both departments?  

Reminding himself that he goes through this every time and still pulls stellar results doesn’t help -- not when he’s trapped in the moment.

Peter checks the time -- he still has an hour and a half until midnight, and he’d finished in the estimated thirty minutes he’d thrown out at Tony Stark. If he wants, he has time to patch Ned through and get a second opinion, but that’s only if Ned isn’t busy -- and now that he thinks about it, Ned may have mentioned a CS networking dinner.

He sighs loudly, rubs his hands over his face, and suddenly, _remembers that he’s not alone._ There’s a witness to his misery. _So embarrassing._

Peter looks towards his present company to apologize, and promptly chokes on air.

Because sitting there, chewing on a pen and with a sly brow raised, clad in that impeccable suit he’d been wearing during the guest seminar, is Tony Stark.

 _Oh, god, he’s hot_ , Peter thinks -- which is just about the most blatantly obvious and stupid thing Peter’s near-genius brain could come up with, but he stands by it. Stark exudes a type of sexy swagger, from the way he manspreads in his chair to the way his arm drapes over the backrest.

That patented Stark charm is already apparent in the media, and was even moreso on the Kresge Auditorium stage. Being up close to the man in a secluded space, though, is akin to getting decked in the face with the cartoon version of a red boxing glove -- or sludged by a _Super Smash Bros_ mallet.

Peter will never be the same again; he’s sure of it.

“M-Mr. Stark!” he stammers, jumping to a straight posture in his seat.

Stark smirks, just the slightest bit, and Peter’s belly flip-flops. It seems to do that a lot in the presence of the billionaire. “Mr. Parker,” the man mirrors, with just enough playfulness in his tone that Peter knows it’s not mocking at all.

Being teased by _the_ Tony Stark is the most surreal, the most spine-tingling, toe-curling thing.

Peter swallows and smiles, nervously. “Uh, what’re you doing here?”

“What do you think?”

“I - uh.” There’s just one explanation why Tony Stark would end up on the seventh floor, south wing of Barker; it’s the only logical explanation, yet Peter is hesitant to think it. Because in what universe would Tony Stark come and seek out boring, unremarkable, college student Peter Parker?

But, Stark is waiting for an answer. His eyebrow is cocked in that one angle Peter knows is his manner of saying _I’m waiting_ , and _wow_ , it’s probably a little telling -- and pathetic, in all honesty -- that Peter knows so many of the man’s cues from studying him in the media.

“You came here to find _me_?” Try as he might, that faint tone of disbelief still slips out. Unconsciously, Peter rests his fingers gently over his sternum and gazes imploringly at the older man.

“What else would I be here for?” Stark asks, wryly. “The desks? They’re better than when I was here, but they’re not _that_ interesting.”

 _And I am?_ Peter can’t help but wonder. _I’m interesting?_

Stark shrugs. “You took off, and then I ended up catching up with Saito, and before we knew it, thirty minutes had passed. So I figured I’d swing by -- pick your brain about your project proposal. Or your thesis. Or both.”

“Y-you want to hear about my projects?”

“Yeah?” Stark looks the slightest bit baffled. “Why wouldn’t I? You’re intelligent -- you’d have to be if Saito pulled strings to get you into my seminar. Don’t deny it -- I knew it was exclusive to the senior class. You’re his next star. And believe me, his stars are now -- well, let’s just say the world would be different without them.”

“Oh. Wow.” The thing is, Peter had an inkling that being one of Professor Nakamura’s star pupils meant he would be going good places, but to hear Tony Stark say that? Holy shit -- if Tony Stark acknowledges the genius of everyone who came before Peter, then maybe he can really change the world for the better, like he’s always wanted.

And on top of that, _Tony Stark_ wants to hear about his projects. That’s… _something_. Peter’s not sure he’ll process it anytime in the next month; he’s not even sure if he’ll go back to his dorm later and realize it was all a hallucination. He’s daydreamed about meeting the man so many times, in so many variations, and sure, the Tony Stark of his daydreams is receptive and interested in Peter’s ideas. But to have that in real life?

 _No fucking way_. Subtly, with the hand that is out of Stark’s vantage point, Peter pinches himself.

It stings. So, he’s awake, even if he’s going to have trouble believing that for the near future.

It’s utter cognitive dissonance; on one hand, what Stark is saying -- the man’s attention and interest -- makes Peter’s heart soar. But on the other hand, that one, nagging voice in the back of Peter’s head screams that it couldn’t possibly be true.

Before Peter can truly ponder his situation, though, Stark starts speaking again. “Yeah, _wow_ ,” he says, mouth quirking in a teasing smile, and then he pushes to standing with a smooth, slinking motion. (Peter’s heart thunks so loud he thinks it must be audible.) “So.” Stark moves forward, movement slick and strutting. “Why don’t you show me what you’ve got?”

The man keeps moving closer and closer, until he’s right up in Peter’s space, and his belt is practically at eye level. _Don’t look at his crotch, don’t look at his crotch, whatever you do_ , Peter thinks, and he swallows, staring up through his lashes. He meets the billionaire’s downward gaze, and gosh, that’s such a tantalizing vantage point to be in.

There’s just _something_ about having Tony Stark stand right in front of you and look down at you like that -- with intrigue, and another shade Peter’s unable to identify. Something fond, but more complicated -- layered with flavors Peter wouldn’t know. There’s an electric, breathtaking, world-stopping kind of _something_ about this position, that even Peter’s wildest daydreams wouldn’t have conjured up.

The sheer intensity makes Peter’s mouth run dry and he takes a shaky breath as his heart flutters. God, Stark is so _close_ that Peter can smell his cologne or aftershave -- something crisp and clean with a bit of bite. “Sure,” Peter stammers, waking his laptop with a few shaky taps to the keypad. “This is my independent study proposal.”

If he’d thought Stark was just going to lean a little bit down and look, he’s dead wrong. The man places a steady hand on the back of Peter’s seat, mere inches from the center of his back, and gosh, Peter can practically feel the heat and the phantom touch of this fingers dragging over his skin. He can’t help but eye that hand out of the corner of his eye, all thick fingers and faint etches of veins, leading up to a wrist that’s adorned with the rich hem of a suit and the most expensive-looking Jaeger that Peter’s ever seen in person. Then again, this is the first time he’s ever seen _any_ Jaeger in person.

“Your project,” Stark prompts, with an amused smirk, and he leans and over in so that those words brush right against the shell of Peter’s ear. He twitches, a little bit -- both in his general body and in, well, less appropriate zones. How can he help it? Stark is hanging right over his shoulder, mouth inches from Peter’s neck as he studies the computer screen, eyes scanning over the document. “Scroll down,” he murmurs, and Peter obeys without thinking. “Good boy.”

And _oh._ Two things hit Peter at once -- first, that praise apparently does something to him. Or, it does when Tony Stark is the one delivering. Second, that Stark has _motive_. Peter’s a realist and tries not to jump to conclusions -- in what world would Tony Stark want him? It would be foolish to think he’d ever have a chance…

… if not for that _something_ in Stark’s tone, or his choice of words. _Good boy._ It’s so sultrily murmured, and in such a sly tone, that Peter can’t _not_ notice. He’s a scientist in the making, and Stark’s tone is pure seduction.

The older man is here to seduce Peter.

There’s more than a bit of disappointment at the sudden realization that Stark is probably flattering Peter’s academic prowess for a lay -- he’d _known_ that Stark’s academic interest had been too good to be true. He now knows what Stark is after, and that the man is so smooth and slick he’ll easily appeal to Peter’s intelligence to get it.

But Peter’s disappointment is just slightly overridden by the mind-blowing thought that Tony Stark _wants_ him. Peter can cry about that other thing, later, when Stark is finished with him and he can go nurse his insecure woes in private; he’s sure as hell not letting _this_ opportunity pass by now.

“How does it look, sir?” Peter asks, clearing all sad thoughts from his head. “Am I doing well?” ( _Flatter me, even if it’s not true._ )

“So far, amazing,” Stark murmurs. Behind Peter’s back, there’s a faint pop -- a knuckle. Well, that’s something. Peter may have a praise kink, but it seems the older man has some particular tastes as well. Demureness, Peter guesses. Deference. Submission. Stark’s entire persona radiates an innate desire for a _pet_ who will paw needily at the older man for scraps of attention and approval. Stark says, “Scroll again.”

Peter does, fingers trembling just the slightest against the touchpad. He holds his breath as Stark scans the rest of his proposal -- the conclusion and his reasoning of why it’s a worthy study. The part he’s most worried about being judged for.

“That’s actually quite genius,” Stark says, as he finishes the last paragraph of the proposal. “That’s quite a project. I almost wish I’d gotten my hands on you before MIT.” To his acting credit, Stark sounds like he genuinely means it, and butterflies kick up a storm in Peter’s belly in spite of himself.

Peter wrestles down the urge to say that it’s not too late for Stark to lay his hands on him, but he’s powerless to stop the second worst thing from slipping out: “What, you wish you were my professor, instead?” Peter blurts, before he can think it over. _Oh, fuck, why did I--?_ In pure mortification, he plasters his gaze to his laptop monitor.

Stark stills, so sudden and so visibly that Peter can feel the tension suddenly tug at him, even if he’s resolutely not looking at the man. “Not that I’d ever say no to mentoring a little genius like you,” the billionaire drawls, voice low and smoky like tobacco notes and oh-so-warm against the side of Peter’s face, “but I think you and I would run into some ethics issues, hmm?”

“E-ethics?”

“Professors shouldn’t fuck their students over their desks, wouldn’t you agree?” In his periphery, Peter sees Stark turn his head the slightest bit, so he’s looking right at Peter. “Or do you and I have extremely different definitions of what is appropriate in an academic setting?”

 _Oh god, oh god, this is happening_.

Peter lets out a shaky laugh and looks down at his lap. “I never thought you’d be the type to follow the rules,” he mumbles. By all reason, nobody in their right mind should antagonize Tony Stark, but some tiny nerve in his gut screams that the man would find that sentiment amusing.

And thankfully, he does. Stark chuckles lowly and that hand -- that infuriatingly close hand that’s been a wrist’s flick away from touching Peter’s back -- finally close the distance, a warm, firm palm settling against the top of Peter’s back, right at the base of his neck.

The span of that hand covers the entire width of the base of Peter’s neck, he notes. Stark could easily move up a few inches and close his grip, and he’d be grasping at the back of Peter’s neck like an owner with his mutt. Fuck, Peter’d been sporting a chub before now -- he’s been doing so from the moment Stark came within a three-foot radius of him, but that touch makes him rise to full mast.

“Oh, you think so?” Stark asks. “You think I’d require a little extra effort for that A plus? Or that I’d make you come to my office hours to pass?”

A full-body shudder crawls through Peter, and he lets out a long, whistling exhale through his nose and grits his teeth. As the hand to the base of his neck tenses just the slightest bit, his head drops forward and he admits, quietly, “You wouldn’t have to _make_ me.”

“Pardon?”

A hot flush rises up into his cheeks, and he says, “If you were my professor, you wouldn’t need an incentive to make me do anything.”

“Interesting.” Yet, Stark sounds unsurprised -- smug, even. “You’d be gagging to impress me in every way, wouldn’t you? Turning in your assignments early, sitting in the front row, first in line for office hours. Going above and beyond for my projects. You’d do everything in your power, just for a simple ‘good job’, wouldn’t you?”

God, is he that obvious? Is his hunger for approval so glaringly obvious that Tony Stark could pick up on it from just the barest interactions? The man isn’t wrong -- Peter would definitely do all those things; he does do most of those things already -- but he’d do _extra_ for Stark. “Yes,” he whispers. “For you? Yes. Would I be your favorite, Professor?”

Stark growls, then. “You’d be my _star_ , Peter,” he murmurs. “My teacher’s pet. So smart. So sharp. So _pretty_. And _kinky_ , too, aren’t you?”

Peter’s eyelashes flutter as a soft exhale fall from his lips -- he can’t help it. Nobody’s ever spoken to him like this, in such a low, delicious tone before. Nobody’s ever called him a pet, or a star, or _pretty_. Or _kinky._ He’d never imagined himself as kinky.

But then again, he just called the man _Professor_ \-- and Tony Stark is the type to call a spade a spade. Kinky, it is.

“Only for you, Professor,” Peter says, feeling his heart pound and nerves flare -- this will either be the best choice he makes, or the worst.

A growled “Stand up,” clears it up -- _clearly_ , Peter’s making the right choice.

Peter pushes to standing; Stark’s hand doesn’t leave his neck.

There’s a squeak of the chair’s wheels as Stark kicks it aside.

“Turn around,” Stark then says, and Peter does, turning in the direction which allows Stark’s touch to remain, hot and steady, as he turns around. He can’t help but glance down shyly -- this is still _Tony Stark_ , and there’s barely an inch between their faces. Peter takes in the flat expanse of the older man’s shirt -- a silky-looking button up, and he imagines what lies underneath, until he’s interrupted by a soft click of the tongue. “Look at me.”

Pulse fluttering, Peter slowly looks up and meets Stark’s eyes in all their dark brown, intense, mile-deep glory. He feels the air leave his lungs at how _beautiful_ Stark’s face is -- not just handsome, but _so damn beautiful_ \-- with his long, dark lashes and discerning gaze and those faint lines on his face that only seem to emphasize how _aged_ he is, like the very finest of wines. There are even faint specks of grey in that beard and his hair, and Peter swallows because that hint of greying is far hotter than it should be. “Hi,” he murmurs.

“Hi,” Stark echoes, voice low. There’s a faint pressure on the back of Peter’s neck, and that’s all the warming he’s given before the billionaire is swooping in and pressing his lips to Peter’s, warm and soft and just the perfect amount of wet.

 _Oh my goodness_ , Peter thinks. _Tony Stark is kissing me. Tony Stark._ He mulls that over for all of a few seconds, before a faint tickle of a tongue against his lower lip catches his attention. _Oh, right, I should probably kiss back._

When he parts his lips, Stark lets out a pleased hum that tingles through Peter’s entire body, and then there’s a tongue gently tracing at the inner rim of Peter’s lips, barely in but so, so enticing. There really isn’t an actual taste to Stark, but it’s so warm, and soft, and wet, and it’s almost as if Peter can taste _those_ in a rush of synesthesia. “ _Ah,_ ” Peter sighs, softly, mouth falling further open, and he lets out a surprised squeak when his lower lip is gently sucked on. Prickles rise all over the back of his neck -- his entire body shudders with pleasure, and his squeak quickly transforms into a raspy moan when Stark sucks, again.

“Oh, you like that, don’t you?” the older man drawls, pulling back and smirking when that elicits a soft whine of protest. “So riled up already.” He takes that last step which brings their lower bodies flush together, and lets out an approving hum as Peter gasps out at the firm press of a thigh against his clothed cock. “That’s right,” Stark says. “I think you could get off just like this, you’re so wound up. What do you think? That’s the first thing that crossed my mind when I saw you -- how _pink_ and _pretty_ your face would look as I made you cum all over yourself like the filthy little college slut that you are.”

Peter opens his mouth to say something, but only a warbled moan comes out -- he’s literally at a loss for words.

Stark grins like a shark and continues, dark, sparkling eyes fixated on Peter’s face. “Look at you, all desperate and needy and gagging for it -- you love this, don’t you? Knowing that you’re a good little student on the Dean’s list, but being talked down to like you’re a sorority brat? What do you want me to do, hmm? What are you gonna do to get that grade?”

“Fuck me, please,” Peter blurts out, before he can think it through. It’s just… if he’s gonna get one chance to be with Tony Stark, he’d like to know what it feels like to be impaled on that cock -- he’s seen it in the tapes. It’s marvelous, and judging by the pornographic audio tracks, the man really knows how to use it. “I need to know -- just please, fuck me.”

Something dreadfully desperate trickles into his tone -- Peter doesn’t manage to keep it back, _fuck_ \-- and Stark’s eyes fill with concern. With one hand, he gently cups at Peter’s jaw, and his brows furrow. “I mean, I’d love to, don’t get me wrong -- I’d love nothing more than to bend you over that desk… But I should take my time. Make it really enjoyable for you. Pamper you a bit. Lay you out somewhere that’s not the middle of Barker. Take you out first, maybe?”

Everything he’s saying is such a sudden and complete contrast from his filthy, deliciously degrading words before, and Peter feels his mind reeling. “Take me out?” he echoes, feeling his entire belly swoop like the drop of an amusement park ride. “Like, on a date? You want to do this _again_?”

Well, that’s probably the wrong thing to say, because Stark’s entire face seems to shutter. “Wait, hold up. I’m calling a time-out,” he declares, voice firm. “Tell me. What do you think this is?”

“I, uh.” Well, Peter’s thinking a lot of things, most of them embarrassing or weird to say out loud, but with the immovable way Stark is staring at him, he has no choice but to speak them. “I thought you just wanted to hook up. You know, compliment my mind a bit, flirt a bit, and just have some fun in the library and call it.”

Again, wrong thing to say, even if that’s truthfully what he was thinking. Stark’s jaw ripples, and he looks more than a little disconcerted. “No. No, no. That’s not-” he huffs and shakes his head, taking a step back, much to Peter’s utter dejection. “I’m truly sorry that I gave you that impression, but that’s not what I’m doing here. And when I complimented your mind, I _meant it_. You are a genius, and if I had found you first, I would have scooped you up for Stark Industries. Besides, I gave you my personal number -- how often do you think I do that for one night stands? _Never_. You -- you’re special. I want you for more than this -- and at the very least, if you don’t want that, then I’m still gonna extend you a job offer.”

“For real?”

“For real. Are you on board? Or should I just have my people email you an employment contract once you graduate?”

“I’m on board.” Peter’s heart pounds away like a horse’s hooves; he’d already been in disbelief that Tony Stark was paying attention to him at all, but to have the man think so much of him -- to have the man want him for _all of the above_ , he’s not sure if he’ll ever process that. But, he’s still an opportunist, and he can make decent decisions even while in emotional whirlwinds. “ _So_ on board.”

“Good. So am I.” Stark visibly contemplates something for a moment, and then claps his hands together decisively. “Okay, change of plans. We’re gonna do this a little better, because that misunderstanding was my bad. But also? We need to work on your self-esteem. For being Nakamura’s star pupil, you’re too unsure of your academic abilities.” With one hand, he grabs the closest spinning chair and pulls it up. “Sit.”

Heart hammering and feeling utterly out of his depth, Peter sits down. What’s happening? What’s Stark going to do? He can’t help but take a sharp breath as Stark spins to seat so that Peter is facing his laptop again, with Stark hovering close behind him, warm breath tickling at the hairs on the back of Peter’s neck. “Log in,” the man murmurs, and Peter does: _AT-AT-Jedi-Sith-Hoth-2001._

“Now, I’m going to read through your project, with commentary, and reward you for every ounce of genius on that document? Just sit back.”

And _god_ , it turns out to be both the nerdiest and most erotic thing Peter thinks he’ll ever experience in his life. He sits in his chair, grips at the edge of the table, and rights the urge to thrust his hips against thin air because he’s so, so unbelievably aroused at the way Stark’s low, whiskey-smooth words tickle at his ear and the side of his neck, at the way the man’s lips and beard will occasionally brush against Peter’s skin, burning like a brand.

He has so many doubts about himself -- even as academically gifted as he’s proven to be -- but hearing Stark’s voice read his own work, interspersed with words of praise and approval which makes Peter’s entire body thrum pleasantly, wipes away the worst of those doubts. And when Stark reaches a part he deems particularly standout, he hums, murmurs, “You’re such a clever boy, aren’t you?” and sucks a bruising kiss to the base of Peter’s neck which has him arching in his seat with a loud, pleading mewl.

God, he really could cum, just like that.

Stark keeps reading -- “‘ _Special emphasis will be placed on compliance with the medical device regulations of multiple countries and unions_ ’ -- that’s remarkably conscientious of differing biomedical device policy-standards, which is _incredible_ and thoughtful, Peter, you’ve outdone yourself...” -- but his hand starts to stray, first gently tracing at the ridge of Peter’s left collarbone, and then down Peter’s heaving chest to gently tweak at a nipple through the thin cotton of Peter’s shirt. “Hmm, what’s that?” Stark asks, as Peter gasps out from the combination of stinging and pleasure. “Should I keep reading? Or do you want more of that? Which do you choose?”

“Keep reading,” Peter gasps out. It’s a close call, but hearing his own words being read in that tone? It’s fucking magical in a way Peter will never experience again. He’s ruined for everything, now.

Stark does keep reading, and as he murmurs against Peter’s ear, his hand slowly trails lower and lower, until his fingers are drumming at the crease of Peter’s hip, a mere twitch of the hand away from where Peter is straining against the crotch of his jeans, achingly hard and leaking. “You still want me to keep reading?” he asks, “or do you want me to touch you now?”

“Can’t I have both?” Peter pleads, squirming and writhing because that hand with its confident touch and rich wristwatch is so, so close to brushing his cock and he’s never needed anything more than he needs Stark’s touch. Yet, he equally needs the older man's soft, soft reading.

“Now where’s the fun in that?” Stark asks, chuckling lowly at the despairing whine which falls unbidden from Peter’s lips. “Whiny and demanding, aren’t we?”

“Please,” Peter whispers, unable to help the way his hips roll upwards, nor the way his hand flies up to grasp at the silky sleeve of the Stark’s jacket, giving a weak tug.

“You’re lucky I’m feeling indulgent tonight,” Stark says. “You read the rest of it -- with pride, and with ego. Be proud of your work. And then, upload it. And if you finish that, I’ll help _you_ finish.”

Obediently, Peter begins to read. “The purpose of our proposed project is to develop and proliferate a prosthetic technology which is cost-efficient, low-maintenance, and accessible for low-income or impoverished individuals who struggle to access current devices on the market. If successful, our main objective is to work with -- _ahh!_ ” Out of nowhere, Stark’s hand closes those two inches and firmly presses over the bulge of Peter’s straining cock, grinding the base of his palm down the slightest, and chasing every last coherent thought and word out of Peter’s brain. “Oh, god, Mr. Stark, _pleeease_ ,” Peter whimpers, sloppily rutting up against Stark’s palm.

The older man _tsks_. “Do good students disobey their professors like this?”

“No, sir, I’m sorry.”  

“I told you to read. Are you going to be a good boy and read for me?”

Feeling the shame of Stark’s soft reproach rushing through his blood, Peter musters every last ounce of focus and slowly, shakily, stutteringly reads through the remaining paragraph of his conclusion, cutting off into constant little mewls and moans, but continuing on at Stark’s small crumbs of biting encouragement and back-handed praise. “And for those reasons, I ask the committee to review my proposed research projects on the basis of its immense potential to provide accessible aid to disabled individuals in a manner which transcends socioeconomic classes and boundaries. I -- _ah_! -- I’m f-finished. Sir.”

“Professor,” Stark corrects.

“Professor,” Peter echoes, breathily. “Please.”

“Please, what?”

“Please make me cum, Professor.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

 _Er…_ Peter racks his brain, and realizes that there’s one last thing -- the most anxiety-inducing thing. Uploading the proposal. Right, Stark had specified that, as well, and Peter inhales sharply. “Okay,” he says, breathily as Stark’s hand leaves his crotch and comes to rest steadily over against his pounding heart. _I can do this_ , Peter thinks.

“Yes, you can,” Stark says, voice low and reassuring, and _oh_ , Peter had said that out loud. “That’s a genius proposal and the committee will adore it -- they’ll probably even give you extra funding, so you’ve got nothing to worry about. Someone as smart as you? You’re going to change the world.”

Fuck, does Stark know just how to play it like an expert. Those words are more potent than any touch, and Peter can feel a telltale drop low in his belly as they wash over him; a strangled noise punches its way out of his throat.

Stark, sharp and slick of a man as he is, takes that and runs with it. “Turn it in, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “I’m right here -- let me watch you turn it in, hmm? And then I’ll have a reward for you, you brilliant, smart boy.”

Peter uploads the document and types out the required information, all while whimpering at the way Stark teasingly licks along his pulse and peppers his skin with the most tantalizing of tiny kisses as the heat from his steady hand seeps through Peter’s tee to warm his entire chest. The upload ticks slowly to 100%, and then Peter hovers the cursor over the submit button with trembling fingers.

He pauses.

This is it -- this is the project he’s been absolutely dreaming of -- the project which will hopefully transition into his senior dissertation and new technology which will revolutionize the field of bionic prosthetics. The moment he sends it, it’s out of his hands, and it’ll be up to a board to decide whether those dreams come to fruition.

It’s terrifying.

Warmth covers his trembling hand as it leaves Peter’s chest. “Together, then,” Stark suggests, tone tender in a way which prods right into the deepest crevice of Peter’s heart. His hand grasps firmly over Peter’s, palm laid over knuckles like a blanket, and he holds Peter’s index finger steady against the keypad. “You ready?”

“I…”

“You’ve got this, Peter. You’re brilliant.”

“O-okay.”  

Stark presses down -- the touchpad gives under the pressure of Peter’s finger, and the page flashes to a submission confirmation. “O-oh,” he breathes out.

“There you go,” Stark says. “You did it.”

“I did it.”

And before Peter can fully process, Stark is shifting behind him, standing up straight and tilting Peter’s head back and back with gentle hands, until Peter is arched over the backrest of his chair and looking, upside-down, into the hint of a smile in the billionaire’s eyes. “How does that feel, sweet boy?” Stark asks. “How does it feel to turn that in and get it off your chest?”

“Like a relief,” Peter breathes, and with a satisfied hum, Stark leans down and presses his lips against Peter’s in an upside-down kiss.

“You’re going to get your project,” the older man murmurs, against Peter’s lips in gentle kisses. “You’re going to get your project, and all the funding your heart desires, and you’re going to change the world.”

“Hmm,” Peter sighs, against the soft press of Stark’s lips and the slight bristle of his beard. He can’t stop the small smile which quirks at his mouth, or the way his eyes flutter at the softness of their kiss -- so different from what they’d been doing minutes before, but equally enjoyable. It’s so _simply pleasant_. He’s still so aroused, straining against the zip of his pants, but he’ll take this soft breather of a bridge before they crescendo into the next verse -- he _knows_ that’s coming. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Stark says. “And in the meantime, what do you say I keep you occupied, Mr. Parker?”

“Yes,” Peter breathes, as a finger drags over his collarbone and scritches, meaningfully, with a bit of an edge. “Please, sir.”

Stark’s other hand weaves into Peter’s hair and twists, firmly, and the rest is history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I'd love to hear what you think :) <3
> 
> There's this whole thing about me being a mental health disaster lately, so I'm relieved to finally finish this one! That said, writing this was fun because some of what Peter is feeling is based in my own academic insecurities while I was in college -- except Tony Stark never came to my library corner to reassure me and grope me while I studied. Unfair.
> 
> \---
> 
> I am [SbiderSlut](http://sbiderslut.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. Come by and say hi! 💖💕


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